


Post-Absence Drabbles

by Ciule



Series: Absence [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Birth, Dark Magic, Explicit Sexual Content, Imperius Curse (Harry Potter), Manipulation, Memory Charm | Obliviate (Harry Potter), Morally Grey Hermione Granger, Politician Tom Riddle, Pregnancy, Rituals, Smut, mentions of an abusive relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25513057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ciule/pseuds/Ciule
Summary: Her brilliant husband, the ruthless wizard set on achieving power no matter what, was also the man she loved, the man who - as unbelievable as it seemed - loved her and would protect her against everything and anything.This is a short series of drabbles of what happened after my story 'Absence'.It's not a full sequel, but scenes and events I wanted to write.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Voldemort
Series: Absence [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1848328
Comments: 90
Kudos: 260





	1. Madame Voldemort

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who read my story Absence, either here or on FFnet! The drabbles will tell parts of Hermione's and Tom's story after the epilogue. If you haven’t read Absence, the drabbles might not make any sense. 
> 
> The extremely short version of a long fic is this: Hermione travelled back in time by a sacrificial spell, hitting 1943. After a series of events, where Tom got a little too curious about our girl from the future, they ended up married. After Hogwarts, they ended up going to the magical University of Sorbonne, having a career in France, before returning to Britain. 
> 
> This story picks up shortly after the return, and Hermione is pregnant with their first child.

The ceremony was so very tedious. _She hated speeches, boring, long-winded officials, loving the sound of their own voices._ Standing next to him, she waited patiently, playing the role of an adoring wife. Her back ached, and the heaviness of her belly made standing still awkward and slightly painful, though she had charmed her high heels to feel like sneakers. _Sneakers, a wonderful concept none of the people in the room were familiar with_ , and she almost wanted to laugh at that _._

Still, the room was too hot, the summer heat stifling. Her dress felt too tight over her stomach, and the charm holding her curls in place felt like an iron band around her head, keeping her veins throbbing painfully against the restraint.

The ornate carvings on the heavy, mahogany furniture were polished until it shone in the candle light of the ever-dim Ministry, and the smell of varnish and soap was nauseating. All in all, Hermione Voldemort, neé Granger, didn't feel all too good.

"And finally, Mr. Voldemort, here are the keys to your office," the short, bald official from the Ministry boomed. Her husband grasped the large key in his left hand, while shaking hands with the official, to the sound of a smattering of applause and cheering from his new employees in the Department of Mysteries. The camera belonging to the photographer from the Daily Prophet gave off a small bang and a puff of smoke, capturing the scene nicely, and Hermione knew with certainty that her plastered smile would survive in the photo. _After all, she was a professional by now. Her smiles seemed real, even fooling the magical cameras._

"And for you, Madame Voldemort, we would like to give you this bouquet of flower as a token of appreciation, since you are so courteously allowing us to borrow your husband during work days." The official smirked at her, bowing down and kissing her hand.

She shivered, feeling a chill run down her spine, but as it were, she had to hold back her angry glare at the stupid wizard. Despite her shivering, sweat was pooling under her breasts and at her nape. _Merlin, it seemed like the temperature was increasing. Didn't the Ministry know how to set Cooling Charms on the rooms?_

_When they had entered Magical Sorbonne, over six years ago, her husband had immediately presented himself as Voldemort, shedding the name of Tom Riddle. The Headmaster and Dark Arts Master, Roulet, had just smiled knowingly at what he knew was a change of name. Everyone in Paris took the name in their stride, and consequently, she became Madame Voldemort – at least until people got to know her on a first name basis. Somehow, in France, everything about the name had seemed easier._

Now, the title made her uncomfortable, maybe because they were back in Britain, and _Voldemort_ was reality here – representing scary memories, awful life experiences, an evil shadow looming tall over six years of her past life in the future. At the same time, it was her brilliant husband, the ruthless wizard set on achieving power no matter what, but also the man she loved, the man who, as unbelievable as it seemed, loved her and would protect her against everything and anything.

Smiling politely as her husband was speaking, she tried her best to disguise her discomfort. A strong twinge in her back almost made her knees buckle, and her smile faltered. Standing stock still, trying to regain her balance, she slowly relaxed.

Voldemort finished his speech, the applause thunderous, and he was now moving among his employees, smiling, shaking hands, looking just as devilishly handsome as always. Even taller than he had been at eighteen, his frame was now more muscular though still graceful, and his face had matured. _No, strike that,_ she thought, _he was_ **_more_ ** _handsome than before. Maturity suited him. He looked powerful, strong, and his gaze was as demanding as ever, those black pools frequently making people feel like they drowned in them, herself included._

Another twinge went through her, and she involuntarily brought her hand to the small of her back to support herself.

Always aware of her, he called out to his secretary: "Would you help my wife to a chair, please?"

She sat down heavily, wanting to believe this was only Braxton-Hicks-contractions – again. But somehow, she _knew_ this was different. _This very well might be the real thing._

Xxxx

At the soiree after the ceremony, she hugged Muriel Weasley happily. _It was good to see a friendly face in the throng of Ministry sharks._ The red-headed beauty whispered: "You look wonderful. I'm so happy you're starting a family." Muriel withdrew from the hug with a wistful smile, and over her shoulder, Hermione caught the eyes of Abraxas Malfoy. He gave her a strained smile, before turning to an old wizard in purple robes.

The lights were blinking oddly, she rather thought, and the temperature was still much too hot. Her long, black silk robes seemed to stick to her back, sweat running down her spine in what felt like rivulets.

"How are you, really?" Hermione said, forcing herself to _not_ notice the state of her body, instead taking a close look at her friend. Muriel looked drawn, with an almost pinched look around her eyes, like she wasn't sleeping enough.

"Oh, I'm good," Muriel said lightly, avoiding her gaze, smoothing her yellow, fitted silk robes over her hips, showing off her curves to her advantage. Around them, several wizards ogled her discreetly, their eyes betraying that they really, _really_ wanted it to be their own hands stroking Muriel's hips and flat stomach.

"Really," she replied, cocking her eyebrow to the witch. "You and Abraxas?"

"I'm an Auror," Muriel said stiffly. "I don't have the time nor the inclination to play lady of the manor."

Hermione snorted. "Is he still going on about that? Hasn't the man grown up?" Giving Muriel a searching look, she said slowly: "You're still together, aren't you?"

"Sort of," the witch said, sighing. "It'll never be anything more than this, I'm afraid. Illegal love. Soon, Abraxas will need an heir, and that'll be the end of it all."

"Oh," Hermione said softly, reaching out a hand to Muriel. Then a _strong_ twinge in her back made her step falter, and she gripped Muriel's arm hard to avoid crumpling to the floor.

"Is it…?" Muriel said, blue eyes wide open, as she looked at her.

"I think so," Hermione grunted, as a wave of nausea engulfed her, making her breathe heavily and slowly through her nose.

As always, she could feel his presence before he actually said something, and _gods_ , how she was relieved right now.

"Are you alright, love?" His voice was a comfort, and his strong arm around her even more so.

Leaning back into his body, she panted: "no," as another ache went through her.

"Is it time?" he said softly, dark eyes boring into her, like he wanted to see the insides of her body, finding out what was going on in there.

"It might be," she gasped, clutching his arm as not to wobble.

"We're leaving," he said resolutely.

"No," she protested, "you're not done yet tonight, this is your celebration. You need to mingle."

He cocked his head at her, a half-amused twist to the corners of his mouth, and he said very clearly into her ear: "You're in labour. I believe that's a valid excuse for leaving early. We can mingle anytime later."

Everything became a blur, as they left. Faces, lights, colours, smells and sounds all mixed into a very confusing blend, and she wasn't able to follow strands of conversations. It was like a demented person turning a switch on and off, on and off, as sound disappeared, came back, volume much too high, before disappearing again. It felt like she was slowly zooming out on everything but the pain in her back.

The cold air outside whipped against her face, as they flew towards St. Mungo's. Weakly, she thought that she had to be completely knackered, not protesting at the flight through Muggle London.

_It was a blur. Entering St. Mungo's felt like a blink of an eye, though she clearly remembered her husband arguing with the Welcome Witch._

_She was in a room. A mediwitch patted her stomach, waving her wand in a complex pattern, saying something half-illegible about "progress, should have come earlier…"_

_She was in a chair. Someone pulled her dress over her head, replacing it with something large, free-floating and soft, settling around her neck. As if she was captured underwater, people moved too slowly, spoke strangely._

_She was in a bed, curling, bending, groaning, as a spasm went through her, and she panted._

_She was locked inside herself, panting, squeezing, shuddering, screaming._

_She was falling, lights flickered, someone yelled, things were crashing, bursting and burning around her._

_A mediwitch shouted: "We cannot contain her, she's too strong, we need help – ooouch! – see, she's breaking through, aaargh, my arm! She's unconsciously cursing everything on sight! – look, we cannot do this, we'll have to Stun her…"_

_"Get her husband!" a voice shouted, as something hard, like shards_ _of glass rained down from the wall, the light globes in the roof swaying dangerously, and then the room went blessedly dark._

"Can you hear me?"

His voice was insistent, low, worried.

"You must restrain her, Mr. Voldemort. She's too strong, she'll destroy the room, possibly hurting herself as well as us. Already, two Healers are in treatment for cuts and burns…"

"Merlin, you must do this every day, why can't you…? _Even in her state, she could tell he was angry._

"She's too strong! She's breaking through the charms restraining her magic from flaring out again and again, please…"

In her ear, she heard his deep voice: "I'm going to put you under the Imperius, for your own safety, love. _Imperio!"_

Suddenly, she was floating, the pain inconsequential, everything was fluffy, alright…

"Relax, love, and listen to the mediwitch. She wants you to breathe slowly. Do it, Hermione, breathe."

And she did, for what seemed a long time.

"Now push. Push, Hermione."

Faintly, she felt like she was splitting in two, but the edge of the pain was gone, leaving only a trace of unpleasantness.

"Push!"

And there was a sound. A baby was crying. _Her baby, and his._

It felt like swimming out of darkness, and then she saw him cradling a baby, a squalling, red-faced thing with dark, curly hair.

Her husband, the dark wizard, the world-conqueror, the vicious killer was quiet, staring down at the baby in his arms.

Weakly, she stretched out her arm, feeling a strong sense of loss. _That baby_ **_belonged_ ** _in her arms, it was supposed to be a part of her body still, wasn't it?_

"My son," he whispered, staring at the baby for a long time.

"Mine too. Ours," she said, her voice almost breaking, pleading, her heart bleeding, like there was something wrong with the baby being outside her reach, the safety of her body.

Her husband very reluctantly put the child down in her arms.

Feelings rushed through her, and mixing surges of love, loyalty, protectiveness, caring, fear, anxiety and dread rushed through her. _What would her baby's future be like? Safe, hunted, protected, endangered?_

The small baby boy stopped crying, his little nose sniffling at her, and his lips puckered.

A mediwitch rushed forward, helping her to get the baby attached to her nipple. _The feeling was strange, close to unpleasant, but her son seemed eager, suckling at her._

His hair was dark, curly, and his body small and very light, soft and warm. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she was smiling, sobbing in an odd combination of happiness and relief, the emotions too strong to be contained inside her.

"He's a big boy," the mediwitch said, "healthy and strong."

"Give us some privacy, please," her husband said, ordering the mediwitch out.

"Are you alright?"

The question startled her somewhat, and she looked at him – and then she saw the devastation around her. There was a large pile of sawdust in a corner, from what she thought might have been a chair and a table. Pieces of ripped fabric cluttered the room, and the tapestry on the walls had long gouges, like enormous nails had scratched long lines. The roof had several scorch marks, and by the bed, there was smattering of ashes like something had been incinerated.

"I did this?"

"Yes. Your magic flared because of your pain. I had to use the Imperius on you to keep you from killing them. It was necessary, love, you hurt some of the Healers rather badly too."

"Oh. I had no idea." Shame flooded her cheeks. _Thousands of witches gave birth every year. Why hadn't she managed it? She was sure she'd have read about it if destruction and attempted killings at magical births were commonplace._

"Don't worry. You were simply too strong for them."

She grunted. "Not for you, though." _Damn, even now, it galled her to lose to him, and he knew it._

A small smirk entered his lips. "Correct, darling. Besides, you were too busy birthing to even try to resist my curse."

"Hmm." She got lost in watching her small son, his tiny mouth now half open and relaxed, breathing rapidly. _Asleep,_ she thought, tears of an inordinate happiness again welling in her eyes.

 _Trust her husband to ruin that, though_. Voldemort had his wand out, making a flaming circle around them, and then he was chanting: " _Protegere connecto, familias sanguis."_

The room darkened visibly outside the circle of flames, and he had a small, silver knife in his hand, ripping open his shirt, and to her horror he cut himself just above his heart, making a small droplet of blood well forward.

"Voldemort," she said weakly, "please, don't… Not a ritual, not _now._ "

Shaking his head adamantly, he grabbed hold of her, moving the baby aside, doing the same thing to her before she could utter any more protests. The cut was a sharp, stinging pain, and blood dripped out on her breast.

At last he lifted the baby, gently making a small wound over his heart too, his eyes tender, though dark fiery blood magic swirled all around them.

Her son opened his eyes, yelling indignantly, shockingly loud. She watched with narrowed eyes, as Voldemort Levitated their drops of blood into a small ball of swirling red, and with a whispered " _Crystallo argenti,"_ it was encircled by a small crystal orb, hanging from a silver chain.

Quickly, he lowered the baby to her chest, and soon, he was happily snuffling at her other breast, searching for the nipple by opening and closing his small, _adorable_ mouth.

Reverently, Voldemort put the chain over the head of their little son.

"He's protected, now. Bound to us, as we are bound to him. Now, he can draw on our life-force if necessary," he said heavily, sitting down on her bed, watching them both with those dark, inscrutable eyes.


	2. Anchor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then suddenly, they both felt the pull. It was incredibly strong, taking over their consciousness and bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion piece to the previous drabble. 
> 
> Trigger warning: Saved from SIDS.

_She was so tired_. Muscles screaming, begging for dreams, for rest, for oblivion, but by now, after five weeks, it was obvious that young Niall Salazar didn't even remotely feel the same need. Her beautiful, little baby boy was awake, eating, asleep for half an hour, awake, eating, asleep for half an hour…

The sweet smell of milk seemed to permeate all her clothes, and if she wasn't nursing, her breasts _leaked_ , soaking through her nursing pads in no time, making her nipples sore. As she was on the verge of crying – _again_ , her husband said reassuringly: "Love, I'll look after him, go to sleep," his hand smoothing her frizzy hair, trailing down her cheeks, soothing her tired face, which felt like it was frozen in a perpetual frown caused by worry.

Darkly, she muttered: "Thanks, but he's just going to be hungry again, and then you'll have to wake me up."

"Go to sleep, love, I'll take care of it. You need to rest."

Too tired, too exhausted to protest, she laid down, eyes closing, and she was gone before she knew it.

Xxxx

She woke up, feeling refreshed, _so clear-headed like she hadn't been for weeks,_ but her breasts were heavy and hard, much too hot - _burning up_ \- warm and aching.

Blinking owlishly at the darkness outside, she couldn't wrap her head around where she was and what had happened. _She had fallen asleep in the middle of the day, hadn't she? How come it was dark outside? No, she couldn't have slept for hours, could she?!_

"Voldemort!" she yelled, feeling angry and distraught. _Poor little Niall, he had to be so hungry!_

Voldemort’s dark head poked into the bedroom.

"Why did you let me sleep for so long? Where's my baby? He has got to be so hungry, poor thing!" Her voice came out as something between plaintive and furious.

"Oh, he's fine. Sleeping," he said, nodding to the crib in the corner.

"Sleeping?" her brow furrowed in confusion.

"I dosed him with a little Dreamless Sleep," he said calmly, those dark eyes assessing her mood.

She gasped. "He's just a baby! You can't do that, he's supposed to eat every few hours!"

He shrugged. "I figure he needed to sleep a little too."

Then suddenly, they both felt the _pull._ It was incredibly strong, taking over their consciousness and bodies.

He was staggering on his feet, leaning on the door frame, like he needed the support to remain standing. She, sitting on the bed, clutched the duvet, heart hammering in her chest, breath coming much too fast, feeling as if there was an incision in her heart, causing something to be _siphoned_ out of her - _her very life_.

From the widening in Voldemort's eyes, she guessed he felt the same thing, and he clutched his chest, gasping raggedly.

Two, golden streams of light were pulled out of them, flitting, entwining in the air, before hovering over the crib, sinking down towards Niall Salazar. A rattled gasp and a small cough came from the crib, and then her son was crying: Blessedly loud, angrily, scared, hungry…

She was on her feet before she knew what had happened, they both were, competing to get to the crib first, but she shoved him aside, lifting her small baby up, holding him in her arms.

"Did he.." she said hoarsely, voice almost unrecognizable, panic still flaring through her in heavy bursts. 

"Yes," he whispered, "he did. The spell drew on us, anchoring him in his body."

A shuddering gasp tore through her. _She had berated him several times on the dark protection spell he had performed when Niall Salazar was newborn. Now, it had saved him. Kept her son alive. Kept him safe from death._

"The Dreamless Sleep," he said heavily, massaging his brow, looking so guilty, so very shocked. "I could have killed him."

She shook her head. "No, no, we don't know that. Lots of people use that potion for their kids, it's not supposed to be dangerous. Though, he's too small to sleep for so long without eating. That wouldn’t mean he..."

His arms came around them and she leaned her head into him. _Granted, that spell was dark, but she couldn't find it in her to be angry anymore. Never again._

"I know," he said, leaning his brow on her head. "The anchoring worked. Now, we know we can stabilize and save each other."

_Yes,_ she thought, breathing in the sweet smell of her baby and the spicy note that was the comforting smell of her husband. _If only the anchoring wasn't a two-way channel, then it hadn't seemed so much like a form of living Horcruxes, saving and resurrecting one another from certain death. Because they would be able to draw on their son’s lifeforce too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waking up at night, listening to check if your infant breathes... That bone-deep fear of NOT hearing the soft breathing. We didn't experience that nightmare, but I was so often awake, listening to my baby during that time. I would have chosen Voldemort's spell, anytime, instead of the worry and nighttime fear. 
> 
> For anyone who's experienced losing a child like this: I'm deeply sorry for your loss.


	3. The Black Affliction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm happy someone is enjoying themselves," a shrill voice said close by her ear, interrupting their dance, and she started, hands twitching, before turning around.
> 
> Walburga Black's face was no more than a few inches apart from her own, and Hermione felt shocked by the half-crazed look in her eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the drabbles are E-rated too. *grins*

The ballroom was sparkling with light, snatches of conversations were all around them, and the musicians were strumming their strings in a corner. The charity ball organized by the Blacks to help collect money for school supplies for poor children was obviously a success, and the turnout from the higher echelons of wizarding society was good.

She straightened her back, finally feeling _sexy_ again after a year of nursing - _not daring to leave Niall Salazar alone, still very much reeling after the scare they had got during his first weeks, opting to stay away from formal occasions and parties, except for the ones they held in their own home -_ and her small, secretive smile caught her husband's attention.

"Now what?" he murmured against the shell of her ear, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin on her throat.

"Nothing," she said, "I'm just happy to be with you."

He chuckled, pressing his hand to the small of her back, and whispered: "Believe me, I'm happy you're here too. These social functions have been hell without you."

"Too many witches competing for your attention?" she said coyly.

"That too, though they mostly keep me away from the work I'm here to do in the first place," he muttered.

Smiling, she leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling the soft fabric of his dress robes against her cheek.

Herself, she had dressed in a daring, black dress, neckline plunging, and the full skirt fell softly around her hips, moulding to her curves in a way she could tell was sexy, both from the burning in _his_ eyes, as well as from other wizards. The diamonds at her throat and in her ears were gifts from him, a proof that money was no longer an issue for them, and she was quite certain the diamonds also held Charms. Certainly something innocent, like making them sparkle and shine, and probably something not-so-innocent layered inside, like a strong ward, a protection spell against attacks or maybe even a spell for eavesdropping. _She wouldn't put that past him_.

He was impeccably dressed, black dress robe swirling, and his neatly pressed, white shirt was visible over his coat. She longed to run her fingers through that dark and silky hair, seeing his dark eyes smoulder with fire, and to lean into that aura of intoxicating power that surrounded him at all times these days. Still, even though he was by far the most handsome man in the room, he clutched her arm possessively to him, sending jealous glances at any wizards letting their eyes rest too long on her.

"You, Madame, are the sexiest witch in the room," he whispered, his voice trailing over her like a caress, "and with you returning to the scene, I have to get used to all these wizards ogling you again."

She smiled, saying nothing, but nuzzled her head into his arm.

"I'm happy _someone_ is enjoying themselves," a shrill voice said close by her ear, interrupting their dance, and she started, hands twitching, before turning around.

Walburga Black's face was no more than a few inches apart from her own, and Hermione felt shocked by the half-crazed look in her eyes. 

_This was not the girl she had met at Hogwarts, and it was far from the pretty socialite and sworn Knight she had met in the years after._

_This was the woman from the portrait at 12 Grimmauld Place. This was the yelling, shrieking, unhinged madwoman who cursed and wailed. But how had this happened?_

Walburga had always been a thorn in her side, but Hermione would have been hesitant to call her mad. Now, though she was still beautiful, her eyes were wild, shining with cruelty and despair.

Those long, black raven tresses were still perfectly coiffed, her dress lovely and elegant, but her expression made her downright scary. _Like there were no limits to what she could do or how she would lash out._

"Hello, Walburga," Hermione said, looking searchingly into her face, wondering what was wrong.

"I have been working myself ragged to get everything ready," the witch ranted, "everything, I did, and all you lot are doing are strolling around grinning like lovesick fools, mocking my work, setting your unworthy feet on my floor…."

"Excuse me?" Voldemort said sternly at her, clearly not being happy by being lumped in with 'lovesick fools', and most certainly displeased by being called 'unworthy'. _His expression almost made Hermione grin, if the situation hadn't been so disturbing._

"Not you, my Lord, not you, not you, of course." The expression in Walburga's eyes was reverent as they took him in, and Hermione wondered if she hadn't been able to shake her old crush.

A tall, skinny wizard came up beside her, taking her arm roughly, as he said: "Be quiet, Walburga, you know I told you to not bother our guests. Or else, well, you know what's waiting for you."

The tall beauty cowered beside him, saying meekly: "Of course, Orion, I'll be good." Her lips quivered a little, before she said, voice faltering: "Please, please, don't… not tonight."

Hermione narrowed her brows, glancing at Voldemort. He shrugged slightly, and after a few words, they moved on, leaving the silent, slumping figure of the proud Walburga Black in the middle of the room, her younger husband whispering furiously in her ear, as he gripped her arm hard.

"Not a good marriage," her husband commented lightly.

"When did this happen? She wasn't like that the last time I saw her," Hermione said, feeling, of all things, _sorry_ for Walburga.

"They married two years ago, and she has been slowly deteriorating, but it has escalated the last six months. He's close to breaking her," her husband said callously.

She swatted his arm, saying: "Voldemort! You cannot allow this, she's _your_ follower!"

He snorted. "He is one of mine, too, and she's not a very useful one anymore. It's part hereditary, you know, the Black affliction. They’ve intermarried for generations, and unfortunately, they seem to have developed a strong strain of insanity running in the family. Orion … well, he's merely escalating her progress."

"You'll stop him, or I'll do something. You know I won't stand for things like this," she said angrily. _Gods, sometimes it was just so hard to make him see reason, to do the decent thing. One word from him, and Orion Black would sit meekly on his hands, never touching or cursing his wife again, whereas she would have to threaten that blasted Orion Black with ruin and torture, maybe even going through with it to make him leave his wife alone. She had never liked Walburga, but she see this through, because Orion’s actions was … unacceptable. Voldemort leaving her to police the behaviour of his more unruly followers happened more often than she liked._

Boring her eyes into him, she made sure he understood that she was being serious. His lips quirked upon seeing the fire in her eyes: "I'm sure you will, and I will enjoy watching you take him down, my sweet, but not tonight. At least, wait until after my speech, will you?"

Sweeping her out on the dancefloor, she tried to enjoy the feeling of being in his arms, putting thoughts of her former rival and enemy Walburga Black behind her. _She'd deal with this later. She would save that blasted nasty witch from becoming a lunatic, but he was right: Not tonight. Now, she would enjoy herself with her husband, like she had planned. She’d tackle the Black affliction tomorrow._

Snuggling into his arms, she felt his heart beat faster, and his mouth came down on her hair. "Do you remember our tradition for parties like this, before Niall Salazar was born?" he murmured, and she could feel him smiling into her hair.

"Yes," she breathed, feeling a shot of excitement rush through her. A throbbing started up in her sex, and she could feel wetness pool between her legs. Rubbing her thighs together, she could feel him hardening against her stomach.

"Is there really enough time before your speech?" she asked, cocking her head at him.

"Not really," he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "but we'll manage. It’ll be quick." 

Leaning in, he whispered, breath hot against her ear: "You're such a dirty witch, getting your thrill from doing it in other people's houses, aren't you?"

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, feeling her nipples harden, peaking, standing out, visible through the fabric of her dress. Breathlessly, she nodded, looking into the mischievous eyes of her husband.

With determination, he led her off the dancefloor, and through a door leading out to the adjoining library. _Anticipation burned inside her, and she knew he was impatient too._

"No cupboard this time," she muttered with satisfaction. “Remember last time?” 

"Yes, I thought you might enjoy the library instead, those brooms clattering whenever we moved weren’t really what I had in mind," he said with a small rueful smile, flicking wards onto the door.

Turning to her, dark eyes devouring her, he Divested them both of their clothing, backing her up against a shelf filled with old, priceless books and tomes.

His strong arms lifted her up with ease, and she clung to his shoulder, holding on to him as he thrust harshly into her, sheathing his thick cock inside her in one smooth motion.

The whisper of his magic connected them, making her feel his sensations, like she was both receiving and taking, and he would feel what it was like for her. 

He closed his eyes in bliss, breath shuddering, excitement coursing through them both, driving her higher - _quicker - closer_ \- than she would have reached on her own. 

She gasped, clenching down on him, feeling all the ridges and veins of his shaft rubbing against her insides, while the leather-bound backs of the books on the shelf ground against her back. "Voldemort!" she breathed, "gods, I've missed this!"

He grunted, starting to pump inside her with strong, hard thrusts. "So tight, you feel so good," he muttered, and she could feel it - not only his hard shaft filling her up, but the way her sex clenched around him, squeezing his cock so deliciously.

Her nub got friction from his pelvis grinding into her, her sex almost dripping as he pushed in and out of her in a steady rhythm, expanding her, while his hands kneaded her buttocks. 

Moaning, she scratched his broad shoulders with her nails, feeling the thrill of him taking her, just outside a ballroom full of people. _No one knew that she was being fucked by her husband, this dark, powerful wizard, the Dark Lord, only metres away from the crowd, no one knew how much she desired him, the way he was able to dominate her body with his much larger frame, how good it felt to be impaled on his big cock…_

With a snarl he grabbed her hands, pinning them over her head, changing his rhythm to a fast, furious pace, hips snapping at her, slamming his cock inside her. She felt her abdomen clench, her orgasm approaching, squeezing her muscles around him, before the edge came hurtling towards her, her breath stuttering into gasping sobs, the fall over the brink into spasming, clenching, as long rolling waves of pure pleasure rushing through her in a long, powerful release.

"Voldemort!" she whimpered, his hips pumping through her climax, the grip on her hips tightening into painful as he swelled up even more in her, exploding into her, groaning "Hermione!" as he shook through his orgasm - letting her experience it with him like a heated thrill shooting through her exhausted sex. 

Panting, he rested his head against hers, his cock still lodged firmly into her, and then he chuckled weakly. "In four minutes, I'm due for my speech. This time, I'll be weak-legged and trembling, though no one will notice a thing." 

Pulling back, tilting her chin up to him, he said with that delicious, commanding growl that made her spine tingle: "And as I talk, you’ll stand in front of me, looking adorable, like a well-behaved witch, but you’ll be dripping with my come. You will love it, my little wife. I know I will."


	4. The Grateful Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What should one say, really, when telling someone you’d just killed their abusive husband? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for mentions of a very abusive relationship.

“So, accidentally, I killed your husband,” Hermione told Walburga, her eyes downcast. Biting her lip, she looked up when the silence stretched out. 

The other woman was silent, immovable, staring at her like she had become speechless. Walburga’s large green eyes held no expression at all, her long black hair partly covering her face, hanging down like a veil on each side. 

Hermione shifted a little on the sofa. The Grimmauld drawing room was immaculately clean, nothing like it had been in the future. The tall curtains shone like burnished bronze, the colours on the Turkish carpet were a vivid red and gold, and the velvet of the sofa was still plush and soft. 

Clearing her throat, Hermoine began again: “I said, I…” 

“I heard you the first time,” the woman in front of her snapped. 

xxxx

_It was true, though Hermione couldn’t even begin to feel bad about it._

_Invading Orion’s mind - a virtual cesspool of evil depravity - had shocked her, making her throw a Killing Curse before she knew it. She had confronted him in their home, at Riddle Manor, and when his eyes had become shifty, denying how he treated his wife, she had resorted to Legilimency. At the best, Hermione was a crude performer of Legilimency compared to Voldemort, but she was effective._

_What she had seen was a nightmare. Walburga had been beaten, tortured, raped - things shoved into her body that had no right to be inside a human body - and for weeks on end, she had been starved too, locked inside their house, her magic restrained, begging for scraps of food, for drops of water, doing whatever Orion demanded, just to survive._

_In short, Hermione felt the Killing Curse was more than justified, the green flash feeling like she was purifying the world, ridding it of a vicious evil._

_She had Transfigured the body into a dead crow, chucking it into the back garden, where Voldemort kept his pet snake. Soon, all that remained from Orion Black would be a few black feathers._

_As she stood in the conservatory, watching the snake devour the crow, she felt a bone-deep satisfaction. The orange trees were blooming, the sweet scent filling the sunlit room, and the glass windows gave an unimpeded view of the thick, trunk-like body of the snake on the emerald green grass outside._

_Voldemort joined her to observe the snake, slinging his arm around her shoulder, chuckling slightly._

_Squeezing her shoulders, he mumbled: “You are so righteous, but you are no better than me, are you love? Killing at will, when it suits yourself.” He kissed her hair, as the crow’s feet disappeared into the gaping maw of the snake._

_“I had good reason,” she said, leaning her head into his side._

_“I’m sure. You’re very good at justifying your own actions,” he said dryly._

_Though, even Voldemort had stilled when she told him of what had been going on in the Black household, just pressing her closer to him, like he wanted to show her support._

_“Will you tell her?” he said softly, and Hermione nodded._

_“Yes. Or else, she’d be worried, wondering if he’d come home or not, dreading his return. It’s better to give her closure.”_

Xxxx

Pressing her palms together to avoid fidgeting, she wasn’t really sure about what to say. _What should one say, really, when telling someone you’d just killed their abusive husband?_

Walburga was still looking curiously detached from what she had been told, more like a statue than a living, breathing woman, and in the end Hermione said stiffly: “I hope you’d go into treatment, to get some help. You must be …. uh, old injuries need to be Healed too. And maybe… you should talk to someone.” 

At last, there was a physical response from the other woman. Walburga straightened, her spine cracking like she had been bent over for far too long, joints unused to the upright position. Raising her hands, she pushed her long silky hair away from her face and shoulders, letting it fall straight and heavy down her back. 

“No,” she said decisively, a small smile on her face. “Blacks don’t ask for help. We get by with our own strength. Only the strongest will survive, the rest will be weeded out.” 

Then a small flush bloomed on the woman’s pale cheeks. Walburga shook her head, slowly, before she croaked out: “Still … thank you. I just need a little rest, alone in the house. Kreacher will take good care of me. Thank you, my Lady.” 

This was the first time Walburga had voluntarily used the honorific, and the small bow that accompanied it could be interpreted as deference. _Maybe Walburga would stop contending her position, then. That would be a first._

Hermione sighed, tiredly. _With this, she had saved Walburga from torture, if not from madness, and maybe - finally - winning her over. She had also caused Sirius and his brother Regulus to not be born, and the future she had known would be even more changed._

_However, after this murder, she was more concerned with the state of her tattered soul._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suspect Walburga still would go mad...


	5. Toddler Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another small smile tugged at her mouth, as her son was completely unfazed, his red, angry face scrunching up in a grimace, defying the most powerful wizard in the world with a bravery none could match. Maybe not even herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone having had the dubious joy of putting someone to bed who DOES NOT WANT TO. 
> 
> I feel you.

“You need to put your pyjamas on,” he said, his voice oddly stiff, like he restrained himself.

She chuckled, burrowing deep into her wing chair, with a book and a mug of tea. _Voldemort probably was restraining his fierce temper._ Though, Hermione couldn’t help enjoying the fact that someone else than her had to deal with the toddler rage. _This was Voldemort's turn to put their son to bed, not hers._

Their three year old son was _NOT_ about to go bed, and he told his father so, in no uncertain terms: “Dad, I don’t WANT to!” he yelled, black, curly hair almost rising to the ceiling with short bursts of strong, involuntary magic, deep brown eyes squinting in rage at his Dad, one small finger raised threateningly towards the great height of his father.

Voldemort clenched his jaw, saying with a deceptively calm voice: “You are going to bed. Now. Get dressed, you can’t run around naked in the drawing room.”

“YES I CAN SO!” Niall Salazar was stamping his feet, the colour of his little face rising. 

"No.” Her husband sat down, hunching to be on the same level as their small son, and took his arm, glaring at him. _She rather thought her husband believed he was merely staring, but no, he wasn’t, Voldemort was really glaring at their child._

Another small smile tugged at her mouth, as her son was completely unfazed, his red, angry face scrunching up in a grimace, defying the most powerful wizard in the world with a bravery none could match. _Maybe not even herself._

“Dad,” the child said sternly, “I am NOT going to bed. You can’t make me!”

“Watch me,” her husband mumbled, giving her a quick glance. She rolled her eyes. _He thought she didn’t know, but of course she did. Whenever he had trouble getting Niall Salazar to do something, he’d Imperio him, but only if she wasn’t watching. As if she was stupid, not noticing the sudden change in their son._

“Niall Salazar, I will make you,” he said, with a small twitch to the crook of his eyes, gritting his teeth.

They had been at this for almost fifteen minutes now, so she couldn’t really blame Voldemort for losing his patience. Now, she could feel his magic start to swirl in the room, gathering power with his rising fury. Little flecks of red were now shining in his eyes, and soon, his magic would feel like it was pressing down on her, like the first signs of a painful, pounding headache.

The child stubbornly shook his head, and said arrogantly with a toss of his head: “I will stay up all night. I’m going to do magic, and _you_ can’t make me sleep, Dad.”

She saw Voldemort blink furiously, before his face became strangely blank. “Very well. Niall, let’s go to the kitchen to find something to eat. You need to keep up your strength if you’re about to stay up all night.”

“Yes!” the boy crowed triumphantly, believing himself to have won the fight, jumping up and down, before running out.

Voldemort moved after him quickly, sending her a stolen glance.

Sighing, she rested her head against the back of her chair. It was like a slow countdown: 10 - 9 - 8 - 7, and before she had reached zero, Voldemort came back, with their son sitting compliant on his arm, yawning, dressed in his green cotton pyjamas.

“Say goodnight to Mum,” her husband instructed, his dark hair falling down into his eyes, as he leaned over, tilting their son down to her, presenting him for his goodnight kiss.

She rose from her chair, giving Voldemort a small shake of her head – _child rearing shouldn’t involve the Imperius, though she didn’t believe it to be exactly harmful –_ and she kissed her sleepy little son, saying: “Goodnight, love, sleep well. Daddy will tuck you in.” 


	6. The Greater Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I won’t tell,” Hermione said with a small smile, before she wandlessly Stunned the woman. The head of the plump, dark witch fell back on the sofa, lolling uncomfortably as Hermione set to work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tha darkest part of the Absence drabbles in my opinion.

_He drove a hard bargain._

Hermione sighed, but it was no use. She had agreed to this, and in return, he would implement her revised Beasts and Beings Rights Law, granting all magical creatures the right to vote. It would give real, tangible power to Werewolves, Mermaids, House-elves and goblins, as well as vampires and giants, making sure that their voices would be heard in the Wizengamot. Still, she had agreed to **_this_ ** . _At least, this way, no one died, but that was the only good thing to say about it._

The trouble was, she rather liked Emelinda Prince. The woman was nice, intelligent and had a warm heart. _Not at all what a Minister’s wife usually was like_ , in Hermione’s opinion. _And these last two years, she had seen several of them, as Voldemort’s power plays made the Ministers come and go, like puppets on a string, with scandals, untimely deaths and strange illnesses following in his wake. Now, the puppeteer was gearing up to take the main stage himself._

The sugar spoon tinkled on the bone china, as the dark-haired witch across her sweetened her tea with three lumps of sugar and a goodly-sized splash of cream. 

“Please don’t tell my husband,” the woman murmured, her black eyes glittering with amusement. “Whenever I’ve complained about my weight these last fifteen years after having Eileen, he just points out that I’m indulging far too often. I know he’s right, but it’s such a convenient excuse, don’t you think? Oh well, I love my sugars.”

Hermione smiled, though it felt strained, knowing that this woman was her former Potion’s Master’s maternal grandmother. _Perhaps this wouldn’t mean anything for his future. Maybe Eileen Prince, in a few years, would run off to marry a Muggle no matter what Hermione did today. Severus Snape’s grandfather certainly hadn’t been Minister of Magic in Hermione’s world, but then again, together with her husband, she had broken the timeline so thoroughly, there were no longer any similarities. This world was, in a way, brand new._

The sunlight fell over the polished oaken floors of Riddle Manor, shining through the verdant trees swaying softly in the garden, making a dappled, leafy pattern of light and shadows. The drawing room looked resplendent and inviting, the green plush upholstery on the sofas and chairs giving richness and contrast to the deep, warm colour of the mahogany table. 

“I won’t tell,” Hermione said with a small smile, before she wandlessly Stunned the woman. The head of the plump, dark witch fell back on the sofa, lolling uncomfortably as Hermione set to work. 

The agreed-upon Obliviate and the false memories she inserted, pained her. _A happy woman, in a good relationship, would now believe her husband had abused her for years. Not only that, but also that he had received payment for corruption and blackmail, acting like a ruthless mobster. Clearly, in the public eye, such a man couldn’t be Minister. Effectively, the woman’s memories of her adult life would be transformed into something hideous. And in turn, her husband would be destroyed by those memories._

In the library across the hall, her husband was in the process of altering Augustus Prince’s memories, even his whole personality, to fit the profile. He would now _be_ corrupt, abusing his wife and his privileges as Minister. And soon, Voldemort would expose him. 

_Still, this way, no one died. And magical beasts and beings would now have more control of their own future. Two lifetimes of false memories, for the freedom and liberation of entire species._

Finishing up her work, Hermione woke up Emmelinda Prince. The expression in the woman’s eyes were drastically altered. She was no longer happy and carefree, and shadows loomed in her brittle, polite smile, her hands twitching nervously as she reached for her tea cup. 

Hermione sighed, sipping her excellent tea, before leaning forward. “Emmelinda, darling. You can trust me. Please, tell me what troubles you so?” 

_It was all for the Greater Good. But sometimes, she wished her husband weren’t such a hard negotiator._


	7. The Malfoy Debacle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tom,” she began, using his old name. He turned around, tumbler in hand, cocking an eyebrow at her. 
> 
> He very well knew, she only used that name when she wanted to say something important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little sad, a little smut. Yes, that sums it up, I think.

“Love, the Malfoy heir _can’t_ be a bastard. We _must_.”

At hearing those words, Hermione stopped short, on her way to get some air from the stifling heat in the ballroom. 

Abraxas was throwing a party in honour of his mother’s birthday, and everyone who was anything in wizarding Britain were present at Malfoy Manor tonight. The summer had been uncommonly warm, and the hot July night made witches bring out their fans, invested with Cooling Charms. 

A trickle of sweat ran down her spine, though her spider-silk dress was open from her neck to the small of her back. Hermione was flushed after dancing with her targets for the evening, the diplomats from Italy and Poland, trying to secure the deal on scholarships for the British students to the magical Università di Bologna and the Jagiellonian University of Krakow. 

Now, she had aimed for a short, solitary break on the lovely stone terrace overlooking the magnificent gardens, hoping for a breath of cooler air outside. In the ballroom, lit by hundreds of candles in the heavy silver chandeliers, Voldemort was still working the crowd, his smile dazzling, seemingly unfazed by the heat in his black silk robes. 

At the end of the terrace, she could see Muriel sitting on the low stone railings, face pale, her red curly hair a splash of colour against her elegant white silk dress. Abraxas stood in front of her, tall in his black silk, his white hair shining in the pale light from the moon, his normally smooth voice raspy and rough.

“I know,” Muriel sighed. She lifted a hand, brushing away something that had to be tears from her eyes, before she whispered: “So be it, then. I marry you in secret before the baby is born, and afterwards … I leave. You’ll raise your son, telling the world whatever story you want them to believe.” 

“Would you leave your baby? Would you see him grow up, with me, never recognizing him?” Abraxas voice was broken, almost ragged, and even from a distance, Hermione could see his shoulders heaving, like he was about to cry, fists clenched. 

“No,” Muriel replied. And now, Hermione could clearly see tears glistening on her face in the moonlight. 

“No. I’ll leave. For real. I’ll leave the country, settling someplace else. Just don’t name him after a creature. Name him Lucius - he’ll need some light to get by in his life.” Muriel's voice was low, monotone, like she valiantly tried to hold back from showing her grief. 

Something like a sob broke from Abraxas’ chest, and he turned on the spot, Apparating away with a loud crack. 

Alone, Muriel cried freely now, desperate hiccups and gasps coming from deep within, and Hermione couldn’t help it, she rushed to her friend. 

“Please leave me alone,” Muriel whimpered, hiding her face in her hands. 

Hermione gathered her into her arms. “He’ll come around, Muriel, he will. I had no idea you were pregnant...”

“No one knows,” her friend muttered. “No one will ever know.” 

“I’m sure he’ll see reason…” 

“He won’t,” Muriel interrupted, her stance suddenly angry. “We’ve discussed this for years now, and still, the way he sees it, the lady Malfoy can’t work. And I won’t give up my ambitions…” 

“I know, Muriel, I know.” she whispered, feeling so awful for not being able to comfort her friend. 

  
  


Xxxx 

Later that night, at home in their manor, after checking in on their sleeping son, she kicked off her shoes, settling on the sofa, while Voldemort was pouring himself a Firewhisky as a nightcap, robe discarded on a chair, wearing only black trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. _Hermione knew, this was his first taste of alcohol this evening. He never drank anything alcoholic when “on the job,” claiming it was a dangerous distraction._

The night air was cooler up here in Yorkshire, and the slight draft from the open French windows was a blessed relief from the heat down south in Wiltshire. 

“Tom,” she began, using his old name. He turned around, tumbler in hand, cocking an eyebrow at her. _He very well knew, she only used that name when she wanted to say something important._ “The situation between Muriel and Abraxas is coming to a head. She’s pregnant.” 

He shrugged. “A Malfoy heir? They better solve it, then, finally coming to an agreement.”

“They won’t.” 

Those black, beautiful eyes held her gaze, and she could tell, Voldemort was curious. 

“Muriel is going away, leaving the child with Abraxas… and I don’t want her to. I want her to be happy, to be with her baby. Tom, can’t you … please … set an Imperius on Abraxas, making him accept that Muriel wants to continue as an Auror?” 

His eyebrows rose, and he came to sit beside her on the sofa. 

“Hermione…” he said slowly. “I … Abraxas is my most loyal, and … this wouldn’t be a reward for his work, not at all. Changing something that must be so important to him is no small thing to ask for.” 

“Please,” she whispered, leaning her head against his shoulder. _Oh, she must be truly dark on the inside by now, asking Voldemort to Curse their follower, just because she wanted her friend nearby._

“Hermione, Abraxas is risking the love of his life for this sentiment,” he said gently. “That in itself shows how important it is to him.” 

“I know you don’t agree with him, I know you think Muriel should continue doing what she loves,” she insisted, and Voldemort sighed. 

“No, I don’t agree with him at all. Still… It’s not a reward, and Abraxas hasn’t done anything to merit this as a punishment either. You could do it yourself, if you feel this is so important.” 

Sullenly, she replied: “I can’t, my Imperius isn't as good as yours. Someone will notice. I just want them to be as happy as we are.” 

“We chose each other. That’s the difference, Hermone. Let Abraxas and Muriel choose their unhappiness, if they so will, but… I’m not forcing my most useful follower to set aside his principles for _this_. You can visit Muriel wherever she settles. She’ll only be a Portkey away, you know.” 

_Sweet Lord, when her husband -_ **_her_ ** _Voldemort - was better than her, where did that leave her? When he denied using an Unforgivable, while she begged for it?_

Slowly, tears trickled out of her eyes, and for a while, he petted her hair, stroking her shoulders, before he turned to her, setting aside his Firewhisky, grabbing her face instead, kissing her tears, drinking them up. 

“You look so pretty when you cry. Even prettier if you cry because of me denying you something,” he mumbled hoarsely. 

She huffed. “Please, I didn’t cry because of…” 

“You did,” he muttered smugly, tongue licking a stripe along her jaw. “You did, and now I’m going to make you scream.” 

“Voldemort…” 

“Yes,” he hissed, “that’s my name.” 

In a surprisingly quick, smooth movement, he straddled her hips, gripping her chin to bend her head back into the pillow, kissing her greedily, invading her mouth. She squirmed underneath him, the weight of his tall body enough to keep her in place, but still, she couldn’t help enjoying the feeling of being pinned under her husband. _He knew what she liked, so well, by now._

When he came up for breath, he was panting. “No Contraception tonight,” he muttered, “I want to come inside you, unhindered, unfiltered.” His eyes were deep and dark, burning like there were coals of fire inside, and slowly she nodded. 

_They had talked about this. Another child, a sibling for their son. Maybe it was time._

With a groan, he ripped her thin silk dress apart, buttons flying, letting his warm hands slide over her bared breasts, playing with her nipples. “So lovely,” he groaned, “so very beautiful, and all mine.” 

She arched up, pushing her breasts into his hands, and he proceeded to rip the rest of her dress apart. 

“Minx!” he growled, upon seeing her without knickers, only with stockings and garter bands. His eyes were hungry, taking in her half-naked state, and she could swear his gaze left a hot trail done her body, igniting her sex, making her wet and needy. 

“Did you dance with all those wizards, with nothing covering yourself?” The arrogant, but possessive expression in his eyes should not have made her wetter, but it did. 

“No one would notice,” she grinned cheekily, “no one but you.” 

“They better not have noticed,” he mumbled, as one large hand was already descending on her mound, pushing her legs apart to make room for him. 

“Wet too, for me,” he grunted, fingers working her expertly, teasing her, making tremors run down her belly, gathering to a point on her nub, making her ache for him, wanting him inside. 

“Voldemort,” she almost whined, writhing under his hand, “please…!” 

He fumbled with his fly, opening it to release his hard cock, already beading with a glistening drop at the tip. Grabbing her neck, he growled: “Turn around, face the window.” 

She obeyed, crawling around to face the back of the sofa, and swiftly, he had grabbed her hips, pulling her back, the tip of his cock probing at her hole. 

“Like this tonight,” he muttered, “I’ll pin you to the sofa, making sure you stay still as you take my cock.” 

Wriggling her bottom at him, looking back at him with a coy smile, her teasing made him snarl, finally slamming his thick cock inside her. 

With a whimper, she luxuried in the feeling of being filled, stuffed full of him, and his hips pumped into her with abandon. 

One hand came around to play with her slick nub, rubbing her, at the same time her breasts were pushed into the back of the sofa, the soft velvet pillow deliciously soft and gentle against her hard nipples. 

She clenched around him, hard as she could, making him growl as he pounded into her. 

“So very tight, trying to squeeze me until I come inside you, are you?” 

Arching her back, taking the thrusts he gave her in time with the strokes from his fingers on her throbbing little nub, her own high was approaching fast. 

Her pulse sped up, her heart hammering in her chest as her belly clenched, need rising, tickling, overwhelming her, until she came, waves of pure light crashing through her as she shouted his name: “Voldemort!” 

With a groan, his hips stuttered, and he emptied himself into her with erratic thrusts, shouting something unintelligible, but in all probability, it was a spell. _A fertility spell, most likely. For his seed to catch, for giving her another child._

Panting, he fell over her, head resting on her shoulder, kissing her neck, and he muttered: “I’m sure our daughter will be better than the Malfoy brat. Much better.” 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abraxas and Muriel... Oh, they were never meant to be, were they? :-( 
> 
> It's a little odd that there's no mention of Lucius' mother at all in canon, isn't it? That's what sparked the storyline of Muriel and Abraxas in the first place.


	8. Brats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, he loved their son equally, she knew that, but he did have a special bond to Morgana. It was almost like the two of them understood each other, like they shared something, a common outlook on the world perhaps, or a way of handling other people. She shivered a little, not wanting to follow that thought to its likely conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place seven years after my story Absence ended, and would you believe it: This was the first post-Absence drabble I wrote. The rest was things I needed to write to get here, and... meet Voldemort's daughter.

“Hahahaha!” Her daughter’s giggling, expressing that boundless happiness that only small children can produce, intruded on her work, and she raised her head, casting a fond glance at the half open door to her husband’s study. 

Morgana was in there with her father, the dreaded and beloved Lord Voldemort, no doubt distracting him from his work again.

At this point, planning was vital. He had just left the Ministry, publicly calling out the incompetence and corruption, readying himself for the official takeover. By now, they had enough support to reinstate him as the leader of the government, overthrowing the Ministry. _Together, they had made sure it would happen, very, very soon._

 _It was odd,_ she mused, _that he would be loved by so many people, despite his cruelty, arrogance and the ruthless chase for power. But he was a charmer too, dazzling the public with speeches and his very presence._ Smiling a little, she admitted to herself that her role in making him into a favorite of the people was of no small consequence. _And the children’s importance – maybe even more_. _The facade of a loving family man kept people in the dark, and so few were able to see through the smokescreen they had created. A precious few, and most of them were now dead or dishonoured._

She knew her seven year old son to be in the library, avidly reading about advanced Transfiguration. Niall Slytherin resembled them both, being bright, inquisitive, wanting to learn everything, but for the moment, he was quiet, a little shy, preferring books instead of the company of other children. _Just like her at that age._ The four year old Morgana Marvoleta was equally intelligent, but so much more a people person than Niall, charming everyone when she wanted too, just like her father.

Turning back to her work, she furrowed her brow as she looked at her research. She devoted as much of her precious time to her Charms and Arithmancy research as she could, but time was hard to come by between her work as Principal of _Hangleton University of Magical Advancement_ , representing and supporting their joint goal of achieving power, and trying to head off any atrocities her husband might want to commit as well as handling their family obligations. 

Struggling to gather her concentration again, she stared blindly at her paperwork. She was trying to improve Floo travelling, making the trips more comfortable and easier, but her focus broke one more as she heard Morgana giggle loudly from the adjoining study.

Her own study was comfortable, with large windows overlooking the gardens of Slytherin Manor – _the newly renamed Riddle House -_ giving the room a light and airy look. Her desk was cluttered with books and her notes, and she noted with a start that her best quill, sitting at the ready in her silver inkwell, was almost chewed off at the top. 

Morgana giggled again, and she heard the deep voice of her husband say: “So, should we Summon a servant to get our tea, then?”

“Yes!” the little girl squealed, and she heard the smack of what had to be a big, sloppy kiss. 

Grinning a little, she thought to herself: _Who would have known, back in her future life, that Lord Voldemort would be such an affectionate father?_ He was never shy of displaying physical affection, though he rarely told the kids that he loved them. She supposed his easy affection was a derivative from his possessive nature, the kids were _his_ , and he took care of what he felt belonged to him, herself included. He spent time with the kids, reading to them, teaching them bits and ends of magic, as well as showing them off to the public – the last part being, after all, his primary goal for having children in the first place.

“Can I use my wand, please, Dad?” her daughter wheedled.

He was chuckling, and answered: “Of course, darling.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Their kids were the only two children under the age of eleven in Britain with their own wands. After a rather heated argument, they had ended in a compromise: He had gotten them the wands like he wanted too, but she had won out by restricting the use to under supervision only. 

“Just a moment,” she heard him say. “Your mother is trying to work in her study, let me just close the door. We don’t want to disturb her, do we?” And by that the door between the rooms closed soundlessly, but she could still hear Morgana’s laughter and the rumble of his voice.

Sinking back in her chair, she leafed through her notes again. Until recently, she had been so sure that the Floo powder was the key _._ She had tried different experiments on it: charming ingredients, replacing ingredients, adding ingredients – but to no avail. The travelling experience was just as dizzying and uncomfortable as before. _Maybe it wasn’t enough to change the powder. Maybe it required a spell in combination..._ Suddenly, she noted something was off. _It was much too quiet._ She could no longer hear anything at all from the study. _What were they doing, requiring Silencing spell?_

Scowling, she supposed he was teaching Morgana a dubious spell. _Again._ He spent a lot of time teaching the children spells, showing them correct wand-work, helping them out, even sometimes going so far as to show them the feel of it by using Legilimency. Both of them were manifesting their magic strongly – much more than children usually did, she suspected. _But that was probably to be expected. He was who he was, and she wasn’t a weakling, either._

She rose from her chair, tip-toeing to the door, opening it to peer through a crack. _There would be no repeat performance of that time he taught Niall the Blasting Curse at the age of five, if she had her say. For weeks afterwards, things were exploding in the house, scattering bits and pieces of cups, cupboards, chairs and toys everywhere._

Morgana, her beautiful, black-haired little girl, was sitting in his lap, gleefully holding their butler at wand point. The butler was pirouetting around the room, on his toes like a true ballerina, a rictus-like, sick grin plastered on his face. The middle-aged, fiercely correct and proper man was spinning like a top, hands gracefully stretched over his head.

 _What was this?_ Hermione stared dumbfounded at the scene. Voldemort was smiling, eyes locked at their daughter, looking both pleased and proud. As always, her heart beat a little faster when she looked at her husband. At 33 years old, he was still overwhelmingly handsome, maybe even more so that as a teenager. Maturity had given him more muscle, yet a lean frame, his features were sharper and more defined, and he positively radiated power and confidence. 

And though it was a distraction, really, she couldn't help her heart skipping with joy as she saw the tenderness in his eyes as he looked down on their daughter.

 _Oh, he loved their son equally,_ she knew that _, but he did have a special bond to Morgana. It was almost like the two of them understood each other, like they shared something, a common outlook on the world perhaps, or a way of handling other people._ She shivered a little, not wanting to follow that thought to its likely conclusion.

“There, Morgana,” he purred, and the little girl turned around, beaming at him. By that, her wand dropped, and the butler collapsed on the floor, lying in a shaking heap.

“Look, when you moved your wand, you lost control of the spell,” her husband said calmly to Morgana, and the face of their daughter fell.

“But you can do it without a wand, Dad,” she pouted, “I want to do that too!”

He chuckled again, stroking her hair. “Oh, and you will, no doubt. You only have to grow up a little. After all, you are only four years old.”

“Four and a half!” Morgana interjected quickly.

“Yes, four and a half, you’re quite a big girl, now. But, we should be very proud that you can work an Imperius at all, darling. This was very well done!”

Groaning, Hermione felt as if her worst nightmares had come to life. _The Imperius. Of all the spells in the world, why would he teach a four year old an Unforgivable? That was rich, even coming from him._

The proud grin shared by father and daughter as they stared at the now fainted butler on the floor was remarkably similar. 

_Oh, the likely conclusion indeed..._ Shaking her head grimly, there was a sinking feeling in her stomach. _Her daughter would be Voldemort’s true partner in crime. She just hoped Niall and herself would be able to contain the two of them in the future._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading the drabbles too. <3 
> 
> This might very well be the end of the 'Absence' storyverse, as nothing more is written, but you never know...


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